I’d just about had it with the sat-nav by the time we trundled into Malmesbury, the little Wiltshire town where The Lodge at Mortons sits snug as a bug. It was day one of our three-day jaunt, and the journey from Swindon had been a right faff – nothing major, just the blooming thing insisting we take a detour through some farmer’s field that turned out to be a dead end. Mud on the tyres and a bit of swearing later, we rolled up to the lodge around teatime, hearts sinking a tad at the thought we’d missed the best of the day. But blimey, what a belter of a first impression.

The Lodge at Mortons is one of those proper Wiltshire gems – a cosy stone cottage on the edge of Malmesbury, all low beams and flagstone floors, with a garden that backs onto rolling fields. We’d booked it for the foodie vibes, you see; the listing promised a well-stocked kitchen and proximity to the town’s markets and pubs. No faffing about with fancy restaurants – we wanted to potter about, graze local, and maybe channel our inner Jamie Oliver. Unpacking the boot, I spied the Waitrose bag stuffed with odds and ends: Wiltshire cure bacon, some crumbly cheddar from a nearby farm shop we’d detoured to en route, and a bottle of cloudy cider from Malmesbury’s microbrewery. First impressions? This place screamed “home-cooked heaven with a side of pub crawl.”

We dumped the bags and legged it straight to Malmesbury Market, just a five-minute stroll away in the high street. It’s the real deal on Fridays – stalls groaning under fresh veg, pies, and artisan loaves that smell like they’ve been baked by angels. I nabbed a brace of plump sausages from the butcher’s pitch (pork and apple, naturally, with that herby kick), a punnet of earthy mushrooms, and some vivid heirloom tomatoes. The stallholder, a cheery chap with a flat cap, reckoned they’d pair a treat with the lodge’s Aga. Back we trotted, bellies rumbling, and set about our inaugural cook-up. Me, the self-appointed chef, attempted a rustic sausage traybake – chuck everything in a dish with rosemary from the garden, drizzle with local rapeseed oil, and shove it in the oven. It emerged a tad charred on one side (note to self: timers are mates, not enemies), but washed down with that cider, it was pure bliss. Laughing over my blackened efforts, we clinked glasses on the patio as the sun dipped behind the abbey ruins – first meal ticked, and already feeling like locals.

Evening called for the pub, and boy, did Malmesbury deliver. The Rose and Crown, a stone’s throw from the lodge, is quintessential Wiltshire boozer: low-lit, log fire crackling, and a blackboard menu that had us drooling. We squeezed into a corner nook and went full glutton – ploughman’s for me (that cheddar again, with pickle sharp enough to wake the dead), fish and chips for her, all golden and flaky, with mushy peas that tasted of someone’s nan’s recipe. Pints of bitter from the Wickwar brewery down the road slid down a treat, and we chatted with locals about the best spots for Sunday roasts. “You’re in for a treat at the lodge kitchen,” one bloke winked. “Ours is naff compared.” Cheeky sod, but he was right – our second breakfast the next morning proved it.

Up with the lark (well, 9am), we raided the High Street Bakery for pasties and eccles cakes, then back for brekkie experimentation: bacon butty supreme, fried in the lodge’s cast-iron skillet with eggs from the market’s poultry stall. It was messy, glorious, and prompted a gentle moment of reflection as I mopped up yolk with crusty bread. Here I was, city lad turned temporary country cook, realising how daft it is to rush meals back home. No phones, just the sizzle and steam – pure therapy. Lunch was a picnic of smoked trout from the fishmonger and crusty rolls, scoffed in the garden while plotting the next pub jaunt.

By day’s end, after a cheeky pie and mash at The Whole Hog (those pork pies are legendary, flaky pastry encasing spiced heaven), our first impressions were sealed: The Lodge at Mortons isn’t just a stay, it’s a love letter to Wiltshire’s grub. Mishap on the road forgotten, we were already plotting return feasts. If you’re after a food-focused escape, this is your spot – just mind the sat-nav.